


power and control

by swordgay



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fake Marriage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-SI5, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 18:24:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16665916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordgay/pseuds/swordgay
Summary: “Why,” he starts, trying and failing to keep his tone as level, “are we married?”“Have a seat, Daniel.”





	power and control

Jacobi stares at the document he finds on his desk first thing in the morning on a Tuesday. It looks official, stamped with the seal of approval of the county clerk’s office — he wonders which poor bastard Goddard paid off to sign it without both parties present.

_This document hereby certifies that one Daniel Kenneth Jacobi, born November 12th, 1982, and one Warren James Kepler, born May 7th, 1977, were united by me in Holy Matrimony on June 15._

It’s strange, reading their names next to each other’s in this way, and a little rage-inducing; what, now Goddard gets to decide who he marries, on top of everything else? He takes the time to run a hand through his hair and finish his coffee before he walks right back out of the office he shares with Klein, paper clutched firmly in his white-knuckled hand.

The calm Kepler greets him with when he slams the paper down on his desk is infuriating, to say the least, but then he has the nerve to say, “Mister Jacobi, is there a problem?” in that slow drawl of his, and Jacobi wants to scream — knows better of it, though.

“Why,” he starts, trying and failing to keep his tone as level, “are we married?”

“Have a seat, Daniel.” Kepler’s voice is smooth and inviting, dripping with mellow intentions and his usual hint of poison.

Jacobi does as he’s told, sits across from him and looks him straight in the eye with his most annoyed look. He knows he’s not gonna get a straight answer. He hardly ever does, with Kepler.

“Tell me, do you remember what I told you the day you signed your contract?”

“Welcome to hell?”

Kepler lets his mouth curl into a half-smile. “Now, there’s no need to be so brash. No, I believe I told you we— I’d need you to not only trust me wholeheartedly, but also go the extra mile to ensure your missions would yield satisfactory results.”

Jacobi wants to open his mouth to retort that he didn’t realise that would involve legally marrying his boss, but he knows him well enough now to detect when Kepler isn’t done talking and is just testing that he has his full attention.

“And, well,” Kepler shrugs, “sometimes those will involve somewhat drastic measures.”

“You knew about this?” It’s really half a question, because Jacobi knows Kepler always finds out things before he does.

Kepler leans forward in his chair to grab the paper on his desk, picking it up with long fingers. “I actually suggested this to Cutter. He was happy to accommodate it.”

Jacobi huffs through his nose. It’s not so much the whole married thing, in retrospect - the only person he has time to see is his hand, with all the time he spends at work — but the fact Kepler never clues him in, always throws him into hot water at the last minute.

“What is this for, anyway?” He asks, crossing his arms. Kepler holds his gaze.

"You and I are a newly married couple going on honeymoon in Europe,” Kepler tells him. “and well, if we end up taking out a few of Goddard’s top enemies on the way, who’ll blame the sweet and hopelessly in love newlyweds?”

***

“I still don’t get why we had to get married for real,” Jacobi grumbles while he watches Kepler sip his coffee on the private Goddard jet.  
“On the very slim chance that we do our jobs less than beautifully, they will look into us. Imagine their shock if they found out we weren’t actually married? We can’t have that, Jacobi. Besides,” Kepler puts down the cup and starts looking out the window, “no company in their right mind wants to risk a lawsuit from us for being homophobes.”

Jacobi wants to laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his mouth; it’s always about lawsuits and procedures and appearances with Goddard, isn’t it. Kepler looks out the window and his profile is illuminated by sunlight streaming through; it doesn’t seem to bother him. It accentuates all the angles of his face, from his straight nose to his clean-shaven chin. With sunglasses nestled on top of his head and buried in his hair, he almost looks like he could be any tourist.

In short, he looks like a Greek god with perfect tan skin, and Jacobi is so, so fucked.

***

Their first hotel is in Iceland, in the heart of Reykjavik. It’s nighttime when they arrive, so they make their way through street lamp-lit streets full of bars and life. Jacobi stares off into space as they walk, gazing at the diverse crowd of people laughing and smoking and drinking outside. They’re happy, agitated, young, and mostly they’re human, Jacobi thinks. In his everyday life, (which consists of waking up, showing up to work and staying there until an ungodly hour, going home, ordering pizza, sleeping, rinse and repeat) he doesn’t really have room to think about socialising or going to bars, and some part of him misses civilian life, but then again he’s never really been cut out for it.

Kepler grabs him by the hand before they step inside, and he snaps out of it and remembers they’re supposed to be a happy couple; bar the wedding ring he’d handed him to wear before they landed, Kepler hasn’t mentioned it again until now. Probably because he knows Jacobi would just whine again.

The hotel has that specific European aura of a building that’s old, with wrinkles in the stone and hardwood floors that creak under their feet. The reception has an old-fashioned bell they have to ring for an employee in a suit to show up and check them in. It’s almost picturesque, if Jacobi forgets that he’s carrying a suitcase full of explosives and Kepler’s is full of guns.

To be entirely fair to Goddard, they didn’t skimp on the room; it’s a honeymoon suite, with a queen sized bed and a spacious lounging area, and there’s a box of complimentary hotel chocolate on the desk when they walk in, which Jacobi immediately grabs.

“Jacobi,” Kepler sighs at him while he puts down his bag.

“What? I’m starving. Plus, these are free. They even included a card congratulating us on our wedding.” His tone is sarcastic even though he’s jet-lagged to hell.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Kepler announces, completely disregarding the wedding comment. “I suggest you do as well, and get out your suit. We’re going to dinner.”

“Awww, is it a date?”

“We’re scoping out our first target,” he takes a few steps towards Jacobi and takes the chocolates from his hand. “don’t fill up on those before dinner.”

“You’re clearly underestimating how big my stomach is.” He retorts, but Kepler’s already shut the bathroom door behind him.

***

Kepler looks good in a suit. Jacobi knows this, has known it for quite some time now, but he’s never been supposed to look at him adoringly as they walk arm in arm before. It’s easy, really; all he has to do is smile, laugh at what Kepler whispers in his ear while they wait in line to talk to the host and get a table, not flinch at a hand on the small of his back guiding him there.

“What drinks will you and your husband be having, sir?” The waiter asks Kepler, who orders a wine Jacobi’s never heard of with the confidence of someone who knows their wine - it probably costs, half of his pay check, but the company’s paying, so.

Their target is the recently-promoted Vice President of a leading aeronautics company in Northern Europe. She’s wearing a beautiful red dress and rubies that match it around her neck, talking to some official-looking men a few tables away from theirs.

“How many bodyguards do you count?” Kepler asks him while he slices through his steak.

“One at the table, two sat at the one behind her. Possibly another one posted outside I spotted earlier, but he could have easily been here for someone else.”

“Very good. She has more protection than I expected.”

“Will that be a problem, sir?”

Kepler flashes a dangerous smile. “On the contrary, Jacobi. It should be fun.”

***

They watch as the very expensive car their target is riding in explodes thanks to a carefully placed bomb, causing her bodyguards to take her to a safe house, far out of the city and away from prying eyes.

When Kepler kicks the door to the house open, still wearing a suit and shooting everyone in sight, Jacobi’s breath hitches in his throat. Kepler himself barely breaks a sweat, wipes the blood off his face and grabs as many documents he can find that might be useful.

“Rigging the car so they would engage their security protocol was a great idea,” he tells him, later, when they’re driving away from the carnage. It’s the closest Kepler ever gets to actually complimenting him. Jacobi’ll take it.

That night, Jacobi watches as his boss’ chest rises and falls in the expensive hotel sheets, face still set even in sleep. He’s too jet-lagged to fall asleep himself, so he gets up and starts to pad over to the lounge area before he hears shifting sounds from the bed.

“Jacobi,” Kepler calls, voice dripping in sleep. “What’re you doing?”

He stops dead in his tracks and turns to see him rubbing his eyes, the faint moonlight streaming over his face.

“I can’t sleep, sir.” It feels like an oddly mundane thing to be saying to his supervisor when hours before they were discussing explosives.

“Come back to bed. We have an early flight tomorrow and I need you alert.” Maybe it’s the fact it’s late, but Jacobi could swear he hears him draw out the I need you part.

Jacobi doesn’t protest and reluctantly climbs back under the sheets. He doesn’t notice immediately, but Kepler’s rolled over from the other side to be closer to him.

“Lie on your stomach for me,” He asks in a voice that’s more awake now, his messy hair the only thing betraying he was ever asleep.

He hates himself for it, but he doesn’t even question the order. Kepler’s never made a move on him in the time they’ve worked together — Jacobi would let him have him any way he wants regardless, and he suspects Kepler knows that.  
Kepler gets up and comes back from the bathroom with what looks like a small bottle, and oh, okay, then, that’s where this is going, Jacobi thinks. It’s not the way he’s ever imagined it when he jerks off in the shower, but well, when Kepler’s hands slide under his shirt to take it off, he doesn’t complain.

What he doesn’t expect though, is Kepler’s hands working at his shoulders and massaging out the knots in his back expertly.

“This isn’t where I thought this was going,” he admits, as if the fact they’re only lit by the bedside lamp right now makes it safer for him to do so.

Kepler only chuckles above him. “I never put out on the first date.” Even though he can’t see his face, he can hear the signature half-smile.

He’s surprisingly good at this, for someone whose hands are usually meant for killing. The massage oil is fancy, the kind you only find in nice hotels; it smells like roses. It’s way nicer than anything Jacobi deserves, he thinks. Kepler finds a huge stress knot in the middle of his back and works at it with his thumbs, alternating between circles and lines. Jacobi makes an appreciative noise he’s only mildly embarrassed about.

“You’re good at this,” he says. “Where did you learn?”

“Well, it all started when I was stationed in Morocco...”

He barely hears the rest of the story, just lets Kepler’ slow and even tone put him to sleep. Is it weird to have your boss tell you a bedtime story? Probably, but it’s not normal to be wearing a wedding ring engraved with their name, either.

***

“May I have this dance?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They’re at a gala in Paris, in some ballroom with an ornate ceiling and expensive chandeliers, where dignitaries and big tech names alike are mingling and drinking champagne. A band is playing a waltz, and of course Kepler is good at waltzing.

Jacobi wasn’t good at waltzing until about six hours ago. Kepler had taken it upon himself to teach him in their hotel room, pushing the furniture out of the way to waltz clumsily in the middle.

And now they’re waltzing among all the other guests, wearing matching ties and watching out for their targets. Jacobi rests his head on Kepler’s shoulder to get a better view, inhaling some of the cologne he watched him put on earlier - it’s intoxicating.

It turns out the smell of fear and blood combined is more intoxicating than any cologne could ever be. They’ve cornered their second and last target of the day in a dead-end back alley in a neighbourhood that’s full of offices people have long left for the day; Kepler just shot out his knees, laughing as the man sobbed and screamed in French.

“Now, this is the last time I’ll ask; why did your company try to steal from Goddard Futuristics?”

“I told you, I don’t know!”

Kepler nods at Jacobi, and its a look he’s seen a dozen times before, when someone they’re interrogating won’t cooperate. He takes a step towards the man on the floor, kneels to reach his face, a knife in hand. “P-p-please don’t,” the man begs in a thick French accent.

Jacobi puts the blade at his throat, pressing lightly. A small crimson bead falls on his hand, warm and acrid. He looks up at Kepler, who’s standing tall and looking on gun his hand, and for a moment he forgets they’re threatening a man’s life. There is only the man he trusts with his life, looking both dangerous and dapper, gunpowder on his hands and a scar on his face. He smiles at Jacobi like they could rule the world. Jacobi’s convinced they could, if they wanted to. He’d try, if Kepler asked him to.

Their hostage’s screams bring him back to reality. He’s delirious now, speaking in a mixture of French and English and god knows what else.

“Useless,” Kepler grumbles. “Jacobi?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Jacobi slits the man’s throat and pushes the limp body off him. Kepler helps him up.

“Come on,” he says. “The night is still young.”

***

Things go pear-shaped in Belgium. Well, they go gun-shaped, exactly.

They’re walking hand in hand looking like the perfect married tourist couple when it happens. They’ve been trailing this guy all day through the streets of Brussels, following as he met with various associates and assistants. It’s not the most interesting thing they’ve ever done, but Jacobi doesn’t mind; the weather outside is nice, he gets to wear a normal t-shirt and jeans, and Kepler’s holding his hand and wrapping his arm around him sometimes. If he tunes out everything else, he can pretend that this is real. Kepler talks at him about history and Belgian architecture while they tail their target in their car. It’s pleasant enough, until the car stops just outside of Brussels and pulls over in a deserted field.

“Don’t move,” Kepler tells him. “Let’s see what he does first.”

The man looks for something in his glovebox and emerges from his vehicle with something Jacobi can’t quite make out until he starts walking toward their car and he sees it’s a gun. Kepler tenses.

“Get out of the car,” the man orders in perfect English.

Jacobi looks at Kepler, and Kepler nods at him, so he does, but not before grabbing his own gun from the backseat. Kepler follows suit soon after, leaning against the roof of the car like no ones pointing a gun at him. Jacobi can see he has a hand on his own weapon.

“To what do we owe the pleasure, gentleman?” Kepler asks, nonchalant but firm.

“Save it,” the man spits. “I know you’re Goddard intelligence.”

“Oh, I’m impressed with your skills in finding out who works at our company.”

Kepler’s tone is even, but Jacobi knows he’s analysing the situation and putting together about six different escape plans right this second. He doesn’t like this at all, and he likes it even less when their target starts walking around the car to face him, nodding towards Jacobi.

“You. You’re coming with me.”

“Uh, no I’m not,” Jacobi retorts. Like hell if he’s going to get kidnapped by some middle-aged guy in a tacky suit.

“I don’t think you’ll be taking my subordinate anywhere,” Kepler warns.

“Oh, he’s your subordinate, now? Pardon me, I assumed the wedding rings meant something.”

Jacobi falls into silence. Shit. This isn’t supposed to happen.

“If you’d done your homework, you’d know they do.”

“Yeah? Well, I guess we’ll see how much you really care about this edgy little number here,” the man laughs, and then Jacobi’s vision blurs.

He hears his gun clatter to the ground and there are two strong hands holding him in place, one of them holding a gun to his temple.

“Nothing, huh?” he taunts. “Guess I’ll keep him, then. Seems like he’ll be great for experiments.”

Jacobi’s rarely seen Kepler lose his cool before, if ever; they’ve been in burning buildings and cars rigged to explode within seconds, and his face remained composed through all of it. It’s the opposite of composed when he shoots the man threatening him in the hand, then in the chest and head after he steps aside to retrieve his gun. Jacobi can smell the gunpowder and the burning flesh right behind him, and he’s been trained to stay calm in situations like this but his knees still buckle.

Kepler’s at his side when he comes to, kneeling in front of him on the floor, the corpse not one foot away.

“Jacobi,” he says quietly, almost as if not to startle him. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good,” he tells him first, and then, “let’s get you back to the hotel.”

They don’t talk on the drive back. Jacobi rests his head on the window in the passenger seat and tries not to think about the way Kepler snapped when that man threatened his life.

***

He’s never seen Kepler like this. Granted, they’ve rarely spent so much time in each other’s company before, but now the mask might be starting to slip, and Jacobi has no idea what’s underneath.

He’s never seen his boss run him a bath and order him room service, whatever you want, never even knew Kepler even liked watching movies in bed, but here they are. Some easy, cliché comedy films plays on the hotel TV, the lights are dimmed, and this looks real. Jacobi lets out a long sigh.

“Is something wrong?” Kepler turns his head to look at him; study him, almost.

“No. I mean. I just.”

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“I feel-“ he hesitates, not looking Kepler in the eye. “I feel completely drained. I know what happened earlier was practically nothing, compared to what we usually do, but- I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

He half-expects Kepler to launch into a speech about what makes a good operative and how he needs to keep his emotions in check if he wants to survive in this job, but instead he reaches for the remote and turns off the TV.

“Sometimes these things happen, Jacobi, even if you’ve been doing this job a while. “

“Does this ever happen to you?”

“In the first few years, yes. You get used to it.”

Jacobi wants to tell him he’ll never get used to this job, but he knows he will. Knows he’ll follow him anywhere until he does.

They fall silent after that, but it’s comfortable; Kepler turns out the light after a little while and Jacobi finds he’s absolutely bone tired. He’s settled and comfortable and almost asleep on his side facing away from Kepler when he feels body heat behind him.

“Sir?” he asks in the dark. The greeting feels out of place for this setting.

“Just go to sleep,” is all Kepler says back before he slings an arm around his waist and pulls him close against his chest.

They don’t talk about it in the morning.

***

Jacobi blinks, and suddenly it’s the last night of their mission, after nearly three weeks travelling through Europe. They’re in London, and Kepler insisted they go out for a drink in a pub to celebrate a job well done; Jacobi’s never one to say no to free alcohol, so he follows.

The place is loud and bustling with people drinking with their friends and when Jacobi tries to dig and find the melancholy he felt watching the people in Reykjavik, he fails. He understands now, or thinks he does, that he’s not meant to be part of that world even if sometimes he exists on the outskirts of it. No, his world is dynamite and secrets and...Kepler. As bad as it sounds, he doesn’t really have anyone he trusts as much as he does him, even though he knows it’s fucked up and probably unhealthy.

Kepler, who could kill him in just about a hundred different ways before he knew it. Kepler who looks great in a leather jacket and a Queen shirt walking outside in the English night air. Kepler who’s walking him back against a wall in an alley and kissing his neck.

Oh.

His hands find the lapels of his jacket and he pulls Kepler closer, wills their mouths to meet for the first time. It tastes like Guinness and whiskey. Jacobi feels like he’s wanted this to happen for a century and the way he kisses him is hungry, all tongue. Kepler responds in kind, angling Jacobi’s face with his hands so he can deepen it, taste him every more.

They both forget where they are until a group of cheerful drunks wolf whistle at them from across the street.

Jacobi flushes when Kepler grabs his hand and it’s real this time.

***

He finds out that night that Kepler is as rigorous and methodical in bed as he is with his work; he takes his time kissing and leaving marks over most of him before he even touches him, only does so when he’s satisfied he’s acquainted himself with every part of Jacobi’s body. The sight of him kissing the inside of his thighs is better than any European monument he’s seen in the past few weeks, Jacobi thinks.

He lets Jacobi ride him for a little while before he flips them over to fuck him into the mattress and god, Jacobi can’t help but drag his nails down his back until it bleeds while Kepler grabs at his hips hard enough to bruise.

It’s the best sex of his life and he’s not even surprised.  
Kepler lets out a strangled but unmistakable “Daniel” just before he comes and it’s enough to make Jacobi see stars, grab at him and cry out “Warren” in response, not even caring about what he might think about that.

They lie there afterwards, breathless and sticking together at every point of contact, the only sound their heavy breathing.

“So,” Jacobi starts once he can speak again, “I guess we’ve finally consummated this marriage.”

Kepler just rolls his eyes at him and pulls him close, too boneless and tired to be stern or dry.

***

Back at Canaveral, they stop wearing the rings, but neither of them express any desire to get a divorce or stop fucking, so they don’t.

Jacobi finds being married to his boss isn’t so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! let me know if you enjoyed!!


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